Dawn
by The Lovely Cynic
Summary: Haine’s favourite times of day were early mornings. //HaineBadou.//


**Dawn**

Haine's favourite times of day were early mornings.

It was these times—when the sky was just turning gray and a silvery wash of light barely painted the sky—that he liked to carefully slip out of bed and pad over to the windowsill. He felt like a child, sneaking something private and personal away, held tight against his chest so nobody else would see. It was as if the dawn were his own some days, when not even the soft tapping of mouse's feet chattered through the old church.

It was then that the night time ended, but daytime hadn't quite begun. It was somewhere in between, when the nocturnal creatures laid their heads to rest, and those diurnal by nature were just beginning to rouse, dusting sleep off like they would a light snowfall.

It was around this time that the sun just started to glimmer over the edges of the smaller buildings; not yet high enough to be smothered by the low-lying haze, but low enough to give off some semblance of natural warmth. The chill of the morning would brush over Haine's exposed skin, gently blowing in through the open window and cooling him _just enough _to give him goosebumps.

It was... exhilarating.

It would take the air from his lungs, stealing it away like some silent bandit. It made him feel something other than pain, taste things other than blood and steel and lead and acrid smoke. Smells and tastes and sights of a violent city washed away for one _goddamn _second....

His eyes would slip shut, sight robbed from him so all that was left was to _feel_. Feel the dawn's early sun sweeping over his skin like tender fingers, feel the contrasting, shadowy cold, feel the way a person is _supposed _to feel. Haine found himself wanting to spread his arms and fly at this point. He felt the _need _to rise above the thick blanket of greying pollution and cloud—to feel the wind, hear it rush passed his ears, taste the fresh air, feel the _real fucking sun _beat down on him....

It only took a moment for it all to be stolen away, though. Hear the click of a lighter behind him, smell the poison smoke. The sun was above the haze by now, glowing orange and wide and unnatural. The redhead still sitting in bed, eye patch hanging off of one ear, hair in knots and mattes and tangles, deadly smoke wafting out of his mouth and nose in plumes.

"You're doing that thing again, Haine," he would say.

"What thing?"

"That thing where you're acting like you'd rather be anywhere but here right now."

They would pause, sharp red eyes meeting singular green. Haine's neck would throb, call, very nearly choke him. "Maybe I would."

Maybe he would. Maybe he would rather throw himself out of that window in hopes of destroying every bit of brain matter in his fucking body than spend another monotonous, vicious day in that goddamn city. Others fought to survive, but Haine didn't need to. He would live whether he wanted to or not. He would spend his days with blood on his hands that wouldn't wash off.

"Get used to it. You're stuck here," Badou said it with some contempt.

Haine's eyes slid back towards the window. The city was starting to wake up now, cars revving and speeding away, horns honking, tires squealing.... The sun rose higher above the thick smog, casting a colourless glow onto the dismal buildings, making them look like something out of an old movie—gray, gray, gray. Always gray. It was like colour was banned long ago....

And then he would turn back towards Badou, still smoking and staring with that fucking _look _he got when he was trying to figure Haine out. He was all colour. Red hair, green eye, flushed cheeks, puckered pink scars and his language was nothing short of colourful, either.

He seemed out of place amongst the washed-out backdrop he was stuck in.

"I know," Haine said so soft, he was surprised Badou actually heard. "And so are you."

Flicking ashes onto the bed—the bastard—he replied, "I know. You don't see me complaining."

Haine smirked and sauntered back over to the bed. He leaned in close so that all he could see in his peripherals was red hair, a black eye patch and flushed, pink cheeks. "Bullshit."

He could feel Badou grin more than he could see it. They sat there for the barest of moments, breath intermingling so that the only smells in the air were that of the city—blood, smoke and gunpowder.

When their lips met, a familiar feeling drifted over Haine's body. He wouldn't have recognized it any other time of the day, but as goosebumps and chills ran through him, that same exhilaration he felt at the window registered in his mind.

He laughed against his partner's thin, smoke-tainted lips—a foreign, rarely heard sound

"What's so fucking funny?" the redhead hissed.

Haine shook his head, the smallest of smiles tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Nothing," he murmured. "Nothing at all."

And, for the first time in a _long fucking time_, it was true. Even if it would only last a second or two, for once in Haine's miserable life, the Stray Dog felt like he could fly.

---**End**

**Author's Notes: **Short and hopefully sweet? Gah, this is my first attempt at a DOGS fanfic. I love the series, guys. I really do. And I know the ending to this was kind of lame, but I like fluff. But you can't really be 'fluffy' with these guys, can you? XD

Ugh. The style I use for this is so different from the style I use for, like... D. Gray-Man or Tsubasa. It's kind of like going back to my old Death Note style. Huh.

Well, I hope you enjoyed! Thanks for reading!


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